October 29, 2008
Consent to being boiled, corn, and you will be delicious. (re-phrased from a Rumi poem)
Yesterday, my acupuncturist revealed to me that I am very stressed. "But I don't feel stressed," I protest. I am only there because I cannot sleep, I am overeating and having tension headaches. He examines my tongue, "You are definitely stressed." A few needles in the head and I am laughing all the way down Maiden Lane back to work.
At work, I wanted to talk and hang out with folks. But a few visits later I creeped back to my office closed the door and took a deep sigh. I am not stressed - I am only susceptible to everyone else on Wall Street who are collectively a basket case.
My daughter insists on seeing me more. That was on my wish list - but what goes in my 24 hour day? Can't be my job because I've accumulated a nice pile of credit card debt in order to dress for the position I want. Not to mention the creams to delay the wrinkles, classes to keep the abs toned and high falutin' pre-K alternatives for the genius child. Can't be ballet because it is my lifeline. Then what? I decided I would instead of more time I would spend "fun-time" with Olive. Too much of our time is choresy.
My goals last year were so much easier - buy a house, find a lifestyle job, dance. (In NYC a lifestyle job means 40 hours a week.) Check, check, check. My goals now are about process, the how to, the deliberate practice, the neuroplasticity and molding everything into a grand sculpture just by happenstance not by design. Need more alpha waves that's what.
I'm blessed - I was the victim of random acts of mentoring last week and of course my pride was appropriately stoked. I'm all puffed up and then a cutting critique from Finis (ballet master) throws it all into perspective. I'm an amateur on the dance floor and to be treated like a professional really hurts. That really should be my wish - more pain that forges - bounding out from between the flames that's me.
Consent to being boiled, corn, and you will be delicious. (re-phrased from a Rumi poem)
The New Moon is granting me 10 wishes. One of mine was to connect to people. If only this didn't hurt so much.
Yesterday, my acupuncturist revealed to me that I am very stressed. "But I don't feel stressed," I protest. I am only there because I cannot sleep, I am overeating and having tension headaches. He examines my tongue, "You are definitely stressed." A few needles in the head and I am laughing all the way down Maiden Lane back to work.
At work, I wanted to talk and hang out with folks. But a few visits later I creeped back to my office closed the door and took a deep sigh. I am not stressed - I am only susceptible to everyone else on Wall Street who are collectively a basket case.
My daughter insists on seeing me more. That was on my wish list - but what goes in my 24 hour day? Can't be my job because I've accumulated a nice pile of credit card debt in order to dress for the position I want. Not to mention the creams to delay the wrinkles, classes to keep the abs toned and high falutin' pre-K alternatives for the genius child. Can't be ballet because it is my lifeline. Then what? I decided I would instead of more time I would spend "fun-time" with Olive. Too much of our time is choresy.
My goals last year were so much easier - buy a house, find a lifestyle job, dance. (In NYC a lifestyle job means 40 hours a week.) Check, check, check. My goals now are about process, the how to, the deliberate practice, the neuroplasticity and molding everything into a grand sculpture just by happenstance not by design. Need more alpha waves that's what.
I'm blessed - I was the victim of random acts of mentoring last week and of course my pride was appropriately stoked. I'm all puffed up and then a cutting critique from Finis (ballet master) throws it all into perspective. I'm an amateur on the dance floor and to be treated like a professional really hurts. That really should be my wish - more pain that forges - bounding out from between the flames that's me.
posted by Mama at 12:18 PM
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